Diehard Fangirl

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

He’s not getting the picture. 

That’s what I’m thinking as I pound furiously at the keyboard to my laptop: 

        @IanKing I’m begging you. Please please please follow me! Please!  

I type those words into the small white window on my screen and hit return. Again. 

I can’t understand what the big deal is. All Ian has to do is just click one button…one stupid little icon on his screen…and follow me on Twitter. 

“What are you doing?”

Lynne. She needs to go back to college. She’s been hanging around the house more this summer, probably because of those adorable camp counselors that are constantly stopping by our house to see Marcus on Friday nights to get paid for the week. As to my older sis, I think she has her eyes on that cute Hernando guy from Chihuahua, Mexico. Whenever I see him, I think about the mountain of Chihuahua dogs finding their bark in that Disney movie.   

The only problem with summer, which hasn’t officially started for me yet, is that Lynne isn’t working yet. Camp officially starts in 20 days and 14 hours when school is officially out. Lynne’s trained already so she doesn’t have to go through Marcus’s grueling Orientation Program like the guys from Chihuahua; so, if she isn’t hanging out at the barn, she’s home. I can tell when she’s been spending time there; I can smell the horses on her clothes when she comes home at night. Or, like now. 

“Girl! You need a shower!” I wrinkle my nose and make a face at her, even though, secretly, I love the smell of the horses. I’d never admit that to her, though.

She laughs and flops on my bed. I get another potent whiff of horses when she does that.

“Seriously, Lynne!” I glare at her, hitting return on my computer screen. Again. “You stink!”

Ignoring me as usual, she glances at my computer screen. When she realizes what I’m doing, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “This is getting to be a little much, isn’t it?”

I pretend that I don’t know she’s hip to my covert operation. “What eez?”

“How many times are you going to tweet that kid?”

My ruse is up. She saw my screen before I could hide it. 

Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she sits up. I hate her hair. As in really hate it. It hangs over her shoulder, completely perfect and full. Why did she get to be pretty, nice, and smart with great hair? 

“Cat, you can’t keep tweeting Ian King!”

“Why not?”

“How many tweets did you send him?” she asks. When I refuse to answer, she puts on her serious face. “Cat…?”

I fail to see the significance of her question and cross my arms over my chest, defiant to the end. 

“Did you do your homework yet?” Her tone is becoming more serious now, but still, I remain strong. It’s simply another completely irrelevant question. “Is that what you’ve been doing up here for the past hour?”

“Two hours,” I correct her, the words slipping from my lips before I can stop them. Immediately, I slap my hand over my mouth. 

The expression on her face is priceless. If I didn’t think I was in so much trouble, I might laugh. But she is not amused. 

“How. Many. Times?” She insists, staring at me with the look, the look perfected by Mom and clearly genetically passed onto Lynne. “How many times did you tweet him?”